De Audito
by Endgegner07
Summary: My entry for the 221b challenge by KCS. Better late than never. Nonslash. Chapter 8: Holmes would mock his romantic nature, he was certain.
1. Chapter 1

_I've been very busy finishing school and applying for jobs and didn't have much if any time to write. To be honest, I've missed writing.  
I hope KCS doesn't mind me also adding to the 221b challenge. I find it to be an excellent one! So here is my (very, very late) entry.  
Also, I have tried to get rid of all of the grammatical errors etc, but I don't have a beta reader, I hope it's alright._

* * *

Abyssus abyssum invocat.

It started with cocaine, slowly killing myself. As he said. He was right, but for a long time I did not see how.

It continued.

I let him belive me to be dying in the Culverton Smith case. I do not know if he ever will write about the anguish I caused him. It was a cold-hearted thing to do. But for a long time, I did not notice this.

The worst was yet to come. My death. Not answering to his screams. I shall forever be hunted by them in my nightmares. It is only just. Because his nightmares, caused by my actions, make mine pale in comparison. They will continue for a long time.

Within three years, his entire existence was deprived of everything that gave him purpose. No, not everything. In the midst of the night, I thank providence for his patients. They kept him alive.

Until I returned.

I am glad to be home, in England, in London, where my friend is.

In my joy, I was yet again foolish and without consideration for his feelings. And he suffered for my errors.

I will strive to make up for my mistakes. This is only fair, I think, as he clings to me in his shock, showing me he is glad to have me back.

* * *

_As always I hope you enjoyed and I'm always grateful for some reviews.  
For those who wonder about the latin, I'll try give an approximate translation:_

_De audito – by hearsay  
Abyssus abyssum invocat – one error will be followed by more errors_


	2. Chapter 2

Fatigue clung to me, like my coat on a rainy day. Holmes' return shocked me, maybe less than I would have expected it to.

Certainly, I did faint, a weakness quite unbecoming of a man, especially a veteran of Her Majesty's 66th Foot.

Regardless, I found myself easily accepting the miracle presented to me. Too easily perhaps. Some part of me wished to be angry and to remain angry. Any anger that might have been there had been erased or suppressed by my joy, my gladness not to be alone. How could I stay angry and hurt?

My confusion caused me to work, to work as hard as I could so I would not have to question my reactions concerning Holmes' return.

He certainly let the matter drop as fast as he could. He hasn't mentioned it since that day. Nothing, save his "thousand apologies". And even these I had heard before. Rarely did he act upon them.

I climbed up the steps, I promised him to visit this evening. Spring had not quite arrived yet and some days were still rather cold, which had effects on every doctor's practice and patients. I hadn't been to my own home all day, avoided it when I could. Memories of my late wife still haunted me. They were too painful to contemplate. And so I found myself back here, at Baker Street.

Rather late it was, too. I could not bring myself to face him until just this time. I opened the door to the sitting-room. A fire was burning, but Holmes was no where in sight. The door to his room was closed.

I settled into my armchair, too tired to call out and let him know I had arrived. My eyes closed of their own accord as I relaxed. Sleep did not come easily these days. Were I to be honest, sleep had not come easily for years.

A creak.

I ignored it. A strange lethargy had settled over me. Footsteps came and went. A quiet voice.

Footsteps again. I knew it was Holmes, but that fact barely registered in my tired brain. There was a whiff of tobacco and a rush of air.  
I am ashamed to say that I was glad to have the excuse of being exhausted, to avoid the, for me and maybe us, painful topic of his return. Wish as I might for his apology, an action rather than a thousand words...

Surprisingly, something brushed my hair and settled onto my shoulder before it was gone. A voice again in the distance, but I could not answer and I let myself be taken by the overwhelming blackness.

* * *

_As you might have noticed, it's a double 221b drabble. I couldn't put Watson's (I admit rather confusing) state of mind into 221 words. I hope you don't mind too much._


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you think you are doing, sir!"

Thank God, Watson is home earlier than anticipated. I do believe I might have offended this 'client' of mine to such an extend that he wishes to do me bodily harm.

Every fool can see that Watson intends the man holding me by the collar (I will have to purchase a new one, because it will be beyond repair once this man has let go of me) bodily harm in return. A bad day at his practice then.

The flashing in his intense blue eyes is quite fascinating. He crosses the space stretching between the door and my armchair, where my 'client' and I are standing in a ridiculous caricature of a wrestling match, in an astonishingly short amount of time.

Gripping this angry ogre (there _is_ a resemblance) by the shoulder, Watson pulls him away with such force that the man has no choice but to let go of me, lest his hands become permanently removed from his arms.

Glad to have this person off of myself, I did not see him swing his fist towards Watson in time. The doctor, unfortunately, is hit hard enough to topple over.

No one lays a hand on Watson without regretting it. I feel my fist connect with the man's jaw and then something breaks.

* * *

_Hope it's not too far fetched, but I do believe they are fierce protective of each other. I also know that Watson's eye colour is generally described as hazel around here. I always have believed it to be blue (watched a lot of Granada's Holmes and both EH and DB have blue eyes).  
Hope you enjoyed!_


	4. Chapter 4

"Has he woken up yet?"

I glanced at Holmes.

"I think it is _rather_ obvious that he hasn't."

I turned my eyes back to the man lying on the settee. He was thickset, middle-aged and some other rather unflattering things Holmes had observed that resulted in damage to both, man and…

"Do you think Mrs. Hudson will charge us extra for the teapot?"

While I had tried to pick myself up after being hit by our 'client' (he still hasn't told me his name), Holmes had delivered a straight left, hard enough to render him unconscious as well as break off a tooth. Unfortunately he had landed upon the side table, crushing the teapot.

"I think you should worry about other things. The man could charge you for assault and…"

"No, he won't."

My eyebrows lifted of their own volition.

"He had me by the collar when you came in, then hit you. I was trying to prevent any further damage being done to my friend. And I doubt he would like my observations to become generally known."

"Blackmail, Holmes? How unbecoming of you." The twitching of my lips belied my disapproval. He smiled back at me.

"You know, you were lucky you only bruised your knuckles, you could have broken-"

"But I didn't." He interrupted and his smile was brightening.


	5. Chapter 5

"My dear fellow, what on earth has happened to you?"

I was quite aghast at the appearance of my friend. Hair ruffled, sopping wet, missing his hat and he had an air of miserable outrage about him.

"Women, Watson."

To say I was surprised would be an understatement. He stalked into his bedroom and disposed of his wet jacket.

He came back, muttering under his breath. Luckily, only his pride seemed to have been injured, by whatever happened to him. I dared to ask.

"_Women_, Holmes?"

"Yes, these…" he did not finish his sentence with a word, but rather with something between a hiss and a snarl. I knew his opinion of women. To my horror, I found myself actually amused.

He took a deep breath. He was quite out of sorts.

"I had just hailed a cab - as you can see the weather is obviously trying to recreate the Flood - and had just begun to climb up the step when I was grabbed-"

"Grabbed?"

"Yes, Watson, _grabbed_ by two of these females, lost my balance and fell-"

"Into a puddle."

"Sterling deduction. They took the cab. I don't know what is wrong with these young women. _Outrageous_ behaviour. No consideration for others…"

Valiantly, I tried to suppress my laughter at his wounded pride, but sadly my self-control broke.

* * *

_I hope this doesn't seem too implausible, but it happened to me once when I was trying to get into a real horse-drawn cab._


	6. Chapter 6

When the war came to an end, Holmes was waiting for him. Watson did not come out of it entirely unscathed. His hearing was to some extend damaged. Sometimes there were headaches and a ringing in his ears. Often, there were the nightmares.

Holmes was glad when Watson came back with him to his cottage. His friend deserved peace and a chance to heal. However much he was able to heal. Watson was withdrawn, but trying to behave like he had when they had shared rooms together in London.

He didn't consciously notice that Holmes had become less withdrawn, gently and covertly persuading him to speak of some of the things that had happened on the continent.

How his hearing was damaged, not even Holmes could learn. Surely it was due to the explosions he was exposed to. But when and where and why, Watson did not tell him, nor did he ask. It was better to let some memories rest.

The days, Watson thought, could not have been more different than the days he had been used to since 1914. Calm instead of chaos. Quiet instead of uproar. Silence instead of screaming.

He was glad for the change.

And in the evening Holmes played his violin, hoping Watson would hear something else in his dreams than the explosions of bombs.


	7. Chapter 7

_I did some research for this one, I hope I got it right and did this double 221b to the best of my abilities. I hope you enjoy and I wish you a happy new year 2009!_

_Be careful with the fireworks ;)_

* * *

It was the 31st of December 1881, still early in my association with the man who was to become the world's foremost private consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

As the previous year had taught me, my friend was not particularly interested in holidays of any kind. I had no reason to believe it would be any different on the last day of the year, or 'Hogmanay', as Father had called it.

It was bordering on midnight and I was in my room, sitting on my bed, reading. I hadn't gone to any of the festivities going on all over the town, but I could not sleep either and so I awaited the new year in the solitude of my upstairs bedroom.

I thought Holmes had gone to bed or rather stayed in bed because I had not seen him all day. So I was understandably surprised to hear the sound of a violin playing a familiar tune, one I hadn't heard for more years than I remembered. (1)

I confess that I listened with rapt attention.

The clock struck twelve and I heard his tread upon the stairs to my room. A knock and then the door opened to reveal my new friend, fully dressed but for his jacket, standing there in his dressing gown, a bottle of what I believed was whisky in his hand.

I remember that I opened my mouth, but made no sound. He had me completely surprised and I could see that he had counted on this, if his smile was any indication.

"Good evening my dear fellow, or rather good morning. Also, pardon me. I may not have your Scottish ancestry but I do hope my dark hair will make up for it." (2)

I felt myself beginning to smile.

"Holmes, are you-"

"First-footing is the name of this strange tradition, I believe," he replied before I could end my sentence.

"That is quite right. But, my dear Holmes, I had thought you above traditions of any kind."

His grey eyes sparkling mischievously at me, Holmes stepped over the threshold and into my small bedroom. He sat himself into the chair by my bed and the bottle onto the table standing next to it.

"The last year has been an excellent one," he said, "and I hope this one will continue to be so. As it is, I hope the whisky is an adequate present under these circumstances?"

"Quite," I repeated in my amazement.

"Excellent. Speaking of traditions, I think you agree if we refrain from burning juniper branches as well as sprinkling so called 'magic water' as I prefer to sleep in a dry bed."

* * *

  
(1) "Auld Lang Syne"  
(2) First-footing is supposed to set luck for the rest of the year. According to folklore a man with dark hair was assumed to be a fellow Scotsman and welcomed. Men with blond or red hair were more unwelcome. So, Holmes would qualify I think.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Happy new year, everyone!**_

* * *

"You _must_ not move."

There was a swimming sensation in his head. His back hurt as well as his leg, so his spine had not been broken.

_Why does Holmes insist then? _

"Watson! Please, do not move, the knife-"

Ah yes, he had been fighting over the knife with the criminal. And then he fell down.

_Fell down what? I can't remember._

"Lestrade will be back with a doctor soon, Watson. You will be fine." Holmes pressed their handkerchiefs firmer into his side. It stung.

_Where the knife struck me…?_

"Keep breathing, dear fellow." He could hear Holmes' breathing too. His arm twitched.

_He's breathing too fast. He needs to calm down._

"For once Watson, I implore you to worry about yourself."

_Did I say that out loud?_

He blinked up into the clear sky and saw a thousand stars.

_A beautiful night._

Holmes would mock his romantic nature, he was certain.

"You better make sure you will see more 'beautiful' nights, Doctor." Watson smiled into his general direction.

"If you die on me, I will follow you into heaven or hell and I will kill you."

He did not point out the flaw in the detective's logic. He moved his hand to press down on Holmes', increasing the pressure on the wound.

This night his heart would not stop beating.


End file.
